


Chapter 0: Prologue by the Fire

by TachyonBlue



Series: Phoenix Effect [1]
Category: Phoenix Effect
Genre: Campfires, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, rocky mountains, Русский | Russian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TachyonBlue/pseuds/TachyonBlue
Summary: Three strange travelers sit 'round a campfire deep in the Rockies, their motives and destinations unknown. Their grizzled guide begins to establish the reason the Old World fell.
Series: Phoenix Effect [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128593





	Chapter 0: Prologue by the Fire

Evergreen leaves rustled as a cool autumn breeze weaved its way through the branches of the Colorado forests. Descending from above, the wind sensually danced across the cheeks of three apprehensive figures in a small clearing, within which a hearty fire had been built. Eager orange tongues leapt from a blue throat, singing the universe’s most fundamental song in harmony with the crackling of the immolating logs within. The  human figures, silent for the moment, sat in  an  uncomfortable  quiet  around the only light  for miles. Then, the eldest among them straightened his back and chuffed.

“ Alright, fine,  блять . If you want to be difficult about it, I’ll tell you. It’s an uncomfortable truth, though. You’ve been warned, boy.”

The other two, seated across from the middle-aged man who’d last spoke, roused themselves from their muddled thoughts that intermingled with the flames. One of them, a youth in his early twenties, shifted the rifle that rested across his lap as he compiled his thoughts into a reply.

“Fine, then. You think this place is empty of uncomfortable truths,  Wolf e ?”

As if to punctuate the question,  a mighty, if distant, roar rippled through the wilds to the north. The three raised their heads to regard it, but were too tired to actually do anything about danger so far off. 

“ Мегаведь .” Wolfe lowered his attention, his curiosity sated, and his two impromptu disciples followed suit. “Bein’ territorial. Too far off to be of any worry. We’re fine where we are. Now, where was I?”

The rifle-wielding youth pointedly illustrated with his reply.

“You were about to tell us about the Calamity.”

Wolfe nodded, reaching into a leather haversack he’d set at his feet. When his hand emerged, it clutched a tarnished and dented metal case, which he opened to reveal a set of carefully hand-rolled cigarettes made from the finest newspaper and wild tobacco. The guide extracted one, running it along the underside of his nose and letting the smell permeate his senses, eyes closed. He grumbled, however, as the youth interjected.

“Uh, tonight, at some point?”

Wolfe’s weather-worn face hardened as his eyes snapped open, steel-grey orbs regarding the brat before him.

“Listen, Trip, this is the sort of memory that requires a focal point. It’s tough, and it’s old, and I’m gonna take my time with it. If you don’t like it, the door is literally everywhere.”

While Trip wrestled with the anachronistic phrase and tried to figure out what it meant, Wolfe produced a small device from the bag.  It was the size of a toy car, made of an impossibly smooth silver metal that reflected the firelight in an unnatural prism that illuminated the fire pit in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, if only for a brief fragment of time. The guide positioned the cigarette between his weathered lips and swept his thumb across the surface of the device. It replied with a short sputter of blue sparks, then offered forth a small lick of green flame. Wolfe used it to ignite his smokeable, then the flame simply went out, snuffing itself until next time, and welcoming its leather home as it was put away.

Trip’s foot tapped impatiently upon the ground as he waited for this ritual to be completed. Meanwhile, the third of them hefted one of many composition books from an obscenely-large backpack, flipping it to a mostly-unoccupied page, and readied his pen to take down the story that was to come.  Their patience was met with a slow, lingering inhale, the guide’s eyes fluttering closed to fully savor the aroma. It was followed by a long pause, the aromatic working its magic in his lung, and then by a cloud of blue-white smoke that was quickly swept away in the evening breeze. When Wolfe’s eyes opened once more, they were filled with the conviction of a man twenty years younger, and his voice was dripping with the gravity of a firm memory.

“ I remember the date exactly. August 3 rd , 2044.  That’s the day we all heard the transmission.”

Trip leaned in, curious as to what exactly it was that Wolfe meant.

“Transmission? Like, on a radio?”

The older gentleman patiently let a stream of cigarette smoke steam from his lips before answering, scratching his salt and pepper beard as he did so.

“Something like that. No,  they took over a communications satellite and sent us a message. Everyone saw it on their phones, so there wasn’t exactly any high-level secret keeping going to happen.”

T he young ranger narrowed his eyes in scrutiny, trying his best to appear knowledgeable.

“Right, right, yeah...so, uh...who is ‘they’?”

Another long draw from the makeshift cigarette preceded the weighty answer.

“The Visitors.”

The narrator allowed the name to hang in the air, ringing in the ears of his curious compatriots.  When there was no further explanation offered, the third man piped up, his pen tapping the page impatiently.

“Explain, please. I can’t just leave the notes at that.”

Wolfe carried on, sighing in mild, undirected exasperation. “ Yeah, fair, not your fault you don’t know. The Visitors, they’re...well, they came to us from outside our world. They didn’t know how to talk to us at first. First Contact, for us, was a recording of a famous actor from a film. Their message was ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business’.  Charlie fuckin’ Chaplin popped up on everyone’s phones out of nowhere, followed by some weird symbols and uh...several people’s phones outright catching fire. Not the most subtle introduction, but it got the point across.”

There was a period of silence that lasted several seconds. The writer’s pen furiously scribbled at the composition book, culminating in hushed swearing as it flipped from his fingers and into the ebony soil at his feet. As he scuttled about in search of his writing implement, Trip cocked an eyebrow, disbelieving.

“Aliens? Like, from the books and such?”

Wolfe’s tone turned critical as his story was doubted.  He flicked off a crowing column of ash, letting tiny embers imitate the campfire.

“They ain’t just from the stories, kid. They came to us and offered us a deal. Was all over the news, nobody could deny it. They came to the RAF with an offer of technology, advancement, power, all with the stipulation that we use it for progress and to bring our people together. To get us off the planet ourselves and all.”

“Wait, the RAF?”

The guide narrowed his eyes, disbelieving of Trip’s question.

“Russo-American Federation, kid. You forget where you live?”

The youth scoffed and rolled his eyes, illuminated dimly by the fire. “That’s a memory, old man. Think they even remember we’re out here? I doubt the Fed even exists anymore.”

The quinquagenerian chose not to comment, for fear of stooping to Trip’s level. Instead, he continued his story, much to the delight of their scribe friend who had finally located his implement.

“In any case, what happened next is a bit foggy. We were great for the next five years. The Visitors gave us all sorts of tech, like this  рэакторчик of mine, and really boosted our capabilities as a species. Then…”

Wolfe paused, his gaze drifting to about a nine hundred yards through the crackling fire. There was a pause, and even Trip realized that this would not be a moment to interrupt the guide’s memories.

“...something happened. They decided we weren’t worth it, I guess. It was...I dunno, probably 2049-ish, but those alien bastards just demolished every major city in the nation. The world, probably, since we never saw relief or help from other nations. They used some sort of turbo-nukes or somethin’. Most of the little towns are fine, like North Rock, but the big cities? Hah, bet you’ve never even heard of Denver, kid. Place is a  15 mile-wide crater now. Nothing left there.”

With a curious tone, all snark missing from his voice, Trip inquired. “Wait, you mean the Pit? Next to Elektrotown?”

Wolfe nodded solemnly. “Used to be a city with  a million folks in it. Now they’re atoms and memories.”

The sentence clung to the chill evening air like a spider, looming over the group. The only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire and the furious scribbling of pen on paper. Trip failed to notice the flames as they began to shrink, their fuel mostly exhausted. The guide was more attentive, and he cast his spent cigarette butt into the small orange fingers before deliberately placing two more appropriately-sized logs within. He carried on as he stoked the flames back into something useful, a warden to keep away the night and the beasts.

“Pricks didn’t even pick up their trash. Left a bunch of their acursed tech here, spent power banks and such. Like throwin’ a battery out the window or something. And whatever it was they did really twisted things up. Messed with the natural order of things. Those snap dragons? Never existed before all that. Time was, you were a lot less likely to get your body flung in six directions all at once out of nowhere on a stroll in the woods. Didn’t have to throw your little rocks to get around safely, kid. Good call on that, by the way.”

Trip nodded, grateful for any sort of acknowledgment, and he took a moment to eye a small bag of stones he kept, essential for triggering abnormal traps. Wolfe sighed, a rare expression of exhaustion, and he rose to his feet to stretch out his beleaguered spine.

“I think that’s about enough of that for now, kid. Don’t know much more about it, I’m afraid. Your scribe friend-”

“ Артём ” the writer interjected.

Wolfe squinted at the scribe.

“Yeah, that. He probably knows a lot more about all the particulars of the Wilds than I do. I just keep survivin’.”

With that, the conversation died. Trip stared up into the skies, serenaded by the scribbling of notes, the myriad of stars laid out before him with both fewer and more mysteries all at once.


End file.
